My Darling Mayakovsky
A/N: Wow! Another fic! Oh my God, this is really new for me! Lol! Anyway…another poetry-inspired HP fic involving Snape, but the second character is not Lupin this time ^-^. Ah, please forgive me for my bad characterization, I'm still new at this ^-^!! Thanks! And please enjoy my short slashy vignette.
Disclaimer: I do not own the HP characters. Ms. Rowling does (as if the entire world did not know that!). I also do not own Vladimir Mayakovsky (I don't think *anyone* owns him!) or whatever poem of his I decide to quote . There we go! Everything's all nice and legal now, eh?
Ok, here we go!
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"He reads poetry."
Draco Malfoy is pacing the empty Slytherin common room, speaking to himself softly, liking that he is alone, and he is thinking. Thinking and speaking and walking, and there is a soft-bound book in the pocket of his robe.
It is not his book.
"Lucius would wish it so. Lucius would approve."
Draco whispers some more. If people knew that Lucius Malfoy reads poetry, if people knew that Lucius falls asleep sometimes clutching a leather-bound copy of William Blake's complete works to his chest, looking so lost in his dreams, if people knew…
But people did not know. Draco realizes that he is not as coherent as he usually is, but the book in his pocket seemed to be drawing away his ability for cogent thought. The book is not his, was not given to him, but Draco knows who it belongs to. Draco does not know why he is thinking of Lucius, why he is affirming to himself that Lucius would approve anything, but the book…
The damned book!
Draco is afraid to take it out again, but he wants to touch it. He wants to draw from it. No…no not draw from it, maybe he wishes to feed it, like one of those magical journals, so that when he returns the book, its owner will be able to feel Draco's thoughts. And they will be spelled out, and Draco will not have to say a word, because the words will be written already.
Draco wishes he could read Russian.
Lucius can. Read Russian, that is. Lucius, besides his darling Blake, loves Pasternak, and Lucius will only read Pasternak in Russian. Malfoys do not settle, Draco realizes, not even for translations, and if Lucius is to read Pasternak, then Lucius will read it in Russian. He taught himself, Draco muses, he taught himself to read it.
The book in the pocket of his robes has translations in it, on the right side of the page. But on the left facings, the words are scrawled in indecipherable Russian. Draco has only looked at the book once, but the strange symbols are there.
Draco wonders, faintly, if the purpose of poetry is to drive one insane. And if that is, indeed, the intent of poets, then Draco would be happy to tell them that they are doing their job. At least one of them is. The one who's name alights the cover of the book. Half English, half Russian, and Draco thinks:
Half love, half insanity. Or, if love is insanity (like poetry), then it is all love and Draco is as crazy as they come. He is as insane as the scribbled Russian symbols. Incoherent, because he suddenly cannot even speak his own language.
An odd feeling. Like the moment before falling off a broom. Like the second before.
It is a Friday. Classes are over. Everyone else is outside lazing about, it is a lovely fall afternoon, and Draco is still pacing, but his hand has slipped into the pocket of his robe and his fingers are tracing out the contour of the book, the sharpness of the corners, the smooth pages, the soft-bound cover.
Draco knows that the book belongs to…to…him, because he has seen…him with it before. Once, but Draco knows. And really…who else would have the book? Who else would…who else could? Draco closes his eyes and sinks into the nearest chair, finally taking the book from his pocket. But his eyes are still closed. He is not looking at it. He cannot.
And he knows why. Draco knows exactly why. Because if he sits here, his eyes closed and the book in his trembling hands, it can be more than a book. It can be…
Him.
The sudden rush of warmth to Draco's ebony cheeks throws his eyes open and Draco is staring at the book. And it is simply a book, simply a book with a shiny white-and-violet cover, the name 'Vladimir Mayakovsky' scrawled out in purposely messy titling.
Draco realizes that he has not been breathing. He remedies this but he is still warm.
"He touched this. He touched this. He touched this." Draco mutters to himself like a spell. He is casting a spell. Or trying to, at least, over the book, the Muggle book by a Muggle poet. Draco is trying to record his voice, trying to imprint his declaration within the confusing Russian original words and the translated English verse, and Draco wonders which one he reads. Russian or English? Is he like Lucius? Does he accept anything less.
Draco hopes not.
What hope is there for him, then.
Someone suddenly enters, and Draco instantly shoves the book back into his pocket. And not a moment too soon, because it is…
(oh Lord, is there fate? Is this fate? Did he really spell-cast the book…make him appear?)
Him.
Draco looks up, trying to remember what his normal expression is and hoping that he is not still blushing. Inside he is shaking, and the corner of the book is poking him in the side, hard. Draco likes that for some reason: not the pain of it, no, but the fact that the book is touching him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy." He nods good-naturedly. Or, at least as good-natured as he can become. Draco wants to cry, because Draco knows that he is like him.
"Good afternoon." Draco nods. He stands. The book does not fall out of his pocket, but it straightens itself out, no longer poking him. Draco does not miss the hurt, and really, he does not even think of the book anymore. Draco is staring at him trying not to stare.
"Where are the others?" he asks.
Draco frowns and realizes that he must find it odd. Crabbe and Goyle were shadows, and Draco had told them to leave him alone for a while. But Draco shakes his head and shrugs lightly, arrogantly. They are alone. They are totally alone, and Draco is flying somewhere. Over Russia, perhaps. And his heart is beating Russian.
He looks around.
"Mr. Malfoy, I was wondering…" He trails off, sounding a bit unsure, and Draco is ready to say 'yes' to whatever he is wondering. In Russian, 'yes' is 'da'. Draco picked that up from Lucius. One day, Draco thinks, he will ask Lucius to help him learn Russian. Lucius may or may not do it, but it would not hurt to ask.
He is still formulating his question.
"Wondering what, sir?" Draco tilts his head. The damned Gryffindors all laugh at him for being such a brown-noser. And that Granger girl…none of them say anything about her, oh no! That is why Draco likes Slytherins…they may be cruel and they may be dark, but they are not hypocrites.
Like poetry.
He blinks. Slowly. "Have you found…" he stops again.
Draco's breath is caught in his throat, and he knows, almost predicts, that the book will fall out of his pocket and tumble open upon the green-carpeted floor. It will fall open to page 161, where Draco had read this verse before: "That bulk is love,/that bulk is hate./Under the burden/my legs/walked shakily—"
But the book does not fall.
"Found what?" Draco is gasping. All of a sudden he feels that he could breath words and be much better for it. Draco wants him to read the book to him, like Lucius used to read John Donne to him when he was a young child. Draco wants to breath his words. Draco wants him to read the Russian part, the half of insanity and make it not insanity. Because then this love
(this crazy poetry of breathing and heat when he stares at him when he compliments him when he ever-so-rarely smiles…)
would make sense.
He shakes his head. "Never mind. I can find it." And he walks out. The air leaves behind him and Draco is gasping. When the door shuts, Draco pulls the book out of his robes and puts it close to his face, the tip of his lips and nose touching the page, the page he folded over (161) and marked, and Draco can breath again. Faintly. Desperately.
Draco saw him read it once. And that is how Draco knows that the book belongs to him. It had not been long ago, perhaps a few weeks at most, and Draco had forgotten a text he had needed in the dungeon classroom. Draco had dashed down later that evening to retrieve it, giddy as he realized he would be able to see him once before going to sleep, and he would be clearly impressed upon him, the air around him. Draco had stopped, though, outside the room, when he had seen him.
He had been pacing the room, but he had been doing so almost distractedly. As if he had not known that he was walking, and Draco recognized the expression on his face. Lucius would slip into that look when he was reading, when he was hiding before sleeping, that removal, that purposeful loss of self. He had been part of the air that was really the words.
He had been reading the book.
And Draco had stood there, forgetting why he had come down, forgetting who he was and forgetting that the world spun, that daylight dawned, that stars reflected and rebounded against each other and the dark around them. No all that Draco saw was him, reading, forming the words with his lips, and he was so lovely. The look on his face as he dove into the book, the un-hypocritical poems holding only his desired meaning and his blessed insanity. He was so perfect and lovely and Draco was floating away with wanting and with loving and with insanity…
And then he had not even known it would be in Russian.
Draco had found the book earlier that morning, as he had been walking out of the dungeon, and his heart had filled, almost, with joy. Not because he even wanted to find release in the words, in the poems, the way Lucius did before he slept, but because Draco would be able to hold the book, feel the cover and be closer to him. Closer.
***
It is later, and Draco is sneaking down the stairwell to the dungeon. He is going to return the book, because he does not want to cry out in his sleep, as he has done before, and with the book underneath his pillow, Draco knows that he will dream hard enough to rip his name from his sleeping lips.
The halls are darkened, and Draco's finger is pressed in the pages of the book, marking out his favorite---161. One sixty one. The name of the poems as "What Happened", in English of course, and some completely understandable lunacy in Russian on the opposite side. He hates having to part with the book, but Draco does not want him going to sleep without the book. Perhaps he slept with it underneath his pillow, and that thought made Draco warm inside again, warm and shuddery with agony and pleasure.
Like some ashen-eyed Russian poet, reveling in the glory of his own depression, hating the reality of circumstance, and living in a world of lunatic truth, unmasked with love for the unattainable and ending in some April.
Draco will not kill himself. No.
Draco does not think that anyone is in the room as he slips in, intent to leave the book on his desk so he will not know who brought it, but as Draco approaches, a few candles flicker on and he is sitting there.
Draco's breath catches. He is not breathing again.
"Mr. Malfoy? Is there anything wrong?" he asks, getting to his feet.
Draco tries frantically to remind himself to breath so he can reply and look normal. Look lucid. He is approaching Draco now, and Draco is smiling suddenly.
"I…is this yours? Is this what you were…" Draco trails off. He is no poet. He holds the book up like a shy child, thanking the Lord that he can breath now.
He looks down at Draco, his face rippled with surprise and embarrassment. Draco smiles softly, and the embarrassment leaves his face. He takes the book and caresses the cover softly. Draco suppresses a sudden gasp of need.
"Thank you, Draco." He nods, touching Draco's shoulder softly. A touch of a father. A touch of a teacher. Nothing more, and that in itself makes Draco want to cry. But…he does not mind.
"You're welcome, Professor Snape." Draco murmurs quickly, and turns from the room, cautioning himself not to run. He is in love. He will buy that book, somehow, and he has already memorized page one sixty one.
Draco Malfoy casts one last look back at Severus Snape, who has opened the book and is smiling faintly, smiling over the book, the words, and he is mouthing them in completely lucid Russian:
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"What Happened"
More than possible
More than necessary---
As though
In sleep sagging down in poetic delirium---
The lump of heart has grown huge in bulk:
That bulk is love
That bulk is hate.
Under the burden
My legs
Walked shakily---
As you know,
I am
Well built---
An appendage of the heart, I dragged myself about,
Hunching the vast width of my shoulders.
I swell with the milk of verse—
There's no pouring it forth---
Anywhere, it seems---and it brims me anew.
I am exhausted by lyricism---
--Vladimir Mayakovsky
Well!! What did you think!? Was it all right? I love Mayakovsky, and I wanted to incorporate this poem, somehow…lol, well, please review! I would be so grateful…I want to know what I am doing wrong, so I can fix it next time. Lol!
Thank you so much!
A/N: Wow! Another fic! Oh my God, this is really new for me! Lol! Anyway…another poetry-inspired HP fic involving Snape, but the second character is not Lupin this time ^-^. Ah, please forgive me for my bad characterization, I'm still new at this ^-^!! Thanks! And please enjoy my short slashy vignette.
Disclaimer: I do not own the HP characters. Ms. Rowling does (as if the entire world did not know that!). I also do not own Vladimir Mayakovsky (I don't think *anyone* owns him!) or whatever poem of his I decide to quote . There we go! Everything's all nice and legal now, eh?
Ok, here we go!
********************************************************************************************
"He reads poetry."
Draco Malfoy is pacing the empty Slytherin common room, speaking to himself softly, liking that he is alone, and he is thinking. Thinking and speaking and walking, and there is a soft-bound book in the pocket of his robe.
It is not his book.
"Lucius would wish it so. Lucius would approve."
Draco whispers some more. If people knew that Lucius Malfoy reads poetry, if people knew that Lucius falls asleep sometimes clutching a leather-bound copy of William Blake's complete works to his chest, looking so lost in his dreams, if people knew…
But people did not know. Draco realizes that he is not as coherent as he usually is, but the book in his pocket seemed to be drawing away his ability for cogent thought. The book is not his, was not given to him, but Draco knows who it belongs to. Draco does not know why he is thinking of Lucius, why he is affirming to himself that Lucius would approve anything, but the book…
The damned book!
Draco is afraid to take it out again, but he wants to touch it. He wants to draw from it. No…no not draw from it, maybe he wishes to feed it, like one of those magical journals, so that when he returns the book, its owner will be able to feel Draco's thoughts. And they will be spelled out, and Draco will not have to say a word, because the words will be written already.
Draco wishes he could read Russian.
Lucius can. Read Russian, that is. Lucius, besides his darling Blake, loves Pasternak, and Lucius will only read Pasternak in Russian. Malfoys do not settle, Draco realizes, not even for translations, and if Lucius is to read Pasternak, then Lucius will read it in Russian. He taught himself, Draco muses, he taught himself to read it.
The book in the pocket of his robes has translations in it, on the right side of the page. But on the left facings, the words are scrawled in indecipherable Russian. Draco has only looked at the book once, but the strange symbols are there.
Draco wonders, faintly, if the purpose of poetry is to drive one insane. And if that is, indeed, the intent of poets, then Draco would be happy to tell them that they are doing their job. At least one of them is. The one who's name alights the cover of the book. Half English, half Russian, and Draco thinks:
Half love, half insanity. Or, if love is insanity (like poetry), then it is all love and Draco is as crazy as they come. He is as insane as the scribbled Russian symbols. Incoherent, because he suddenly cannot even speak his own language.
An odd feeling. Like the moment before falling off a broom. Like the second before.
It is a Friday. Classes are over. Everyone else is outside lazing about, it is a lovely fall afternoon, and Draco is still pacing, but his hand has slipped into the pocket of his robe and his fingers are tracing out the contour of the book, the sharpness of the corners, the smooth pages, the soft-bound cover.
Draco knows that the book belongs to…to…him, because he has seen…him with it before. Once, but Draco knows. And really…who else would have the book? Who else would…who else could? Draco closes his eyes and sinks into the nearest chair, finally taking the book from his pocket. But his eyes are still closed. He is not looking at it. He cannot.
And he knows why. Draco knows exactly why. Because if he sits here, his eyes closed and the book in his trembling hands, it can be more than a book. It can be…
Him.
The sudden rush of warmth to Draco's ebony cheeks throws his eyes open and Draco is staring at the book. And it is simply a book, simply a book with a shiny white-and-violet cover, the name 'Vladimir Mayakovsky' scrawled out in purposely messy titling.
Draco realizes that he has not been breathing. He remedies this but he is still warm.
"He touched this. He touched this. He touched this." Draco mutters to himself like a spell. He is casting a spell. Or trying to, at least, over the book, the Muggle book by a Muggle poet. Draco is trying to record his voice, trying to imprint his declaration within the confusing Russian original words and the translated English verse, and Draco wonders which one he reads. Russian or English? Is he like Lucius? Does he accept anything less.
Draco hopes not.
What hope is there for him, then.
Someone suddenly enters, and Draco instantly shoves the book back into his pocket. And not a moment too soon, because it is…
(oh Lord, is there fate? Is this fate? Did he really spell-cast the book…make him appear?)
Him.
Draco looks up, trying to remember what his normal expression is and hoping that he is not still blushing. Inside he is shaking, and the corner of the book is poking him in the side, hard. Draco likes that for some reason: not the pain of it, no, but the fact that the book is touching him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy." He nods good-naturedly. Or, at least as good-natured as he can become. Draco wants to cry, because Draco knows that he is like him.
"Good afternoon." Draco nods. He stands. The book does not fall out of his pocket, but it straightens itself out, no longer poking him. Draco does not miss the hurt, and really, he does not even think of the book anymore. Draco is staring at him trying not to stare.
"Where are the others?" he asks.
Draco frowns and realizes that he must find it odd. Crabbe and Goyle were shadows, and Draco had told them to leave him alone for a while. But Draco shakes his head and shrugs lightly, arrogantly. They are alone. They are totally alone, and Draco is flying somewhere. Over Russia, perhaps. And his heart is beating Russian.
He looks around.
"Mr. Malfoy, I was wondering…" He trails off, sounding a bit unsure, and Draco is ready to say 'yes' to whatever he is wondering. In Russian, 'yes' is 'da'. Draco picked that up from Lucius. One day, Draco thinks, he will ask Lucius to help him learn Russian. Lucius may or may not do it, but it would not hurt to ask.
He is still formulating his question.
"Wondering what, sir?" Draco tilts his head. The damned Gryffindors all laugh at him for being such a brown-noser. And that Granger girl…none of them say anything about her, oh no! That is why Draco likes Slytherins…they may be cruel and they may be dark, but they are not hypocrites.
Like poetry.
He blinks. Slowly. "Have you found…" he stops again.
Draco's breath is caught in his throat, and he knows, almost predicts, that the book will fall out of his pocket and tumble open upon the green-carpeted floor. It will fall open to page 161, where Draco had read this verse before: "That bulk is love,/that bulk is hate./Under the burden/my legs/walked shakily—"
But the book does not fall.
"Found what?" Draco is gasping. All of a sudden he feels that he could breath words and be much better for it. Draco wants him to read the book to him, like Lucius used to read John Donne to him when he was a young child. Draco wants to breath his words. Draco wants him to read the Russian part, the half of insanity and make it not insanity. Because then this love
(this crazy poetry of breathing and heat when he stares at him when he compliments him when he ever-so-rarely smiles…)
would make sense.
He shakes his head. "Never mind. I can find it." And he walks out. The air leaves behind him and Draco is gasping. When the door shuts, Draco pulls the book out of his robes and puts it close to his face, the tip of his lips and nose touching the page, the page he folded over (161) and marked, and Draco can breath again. Faintly. Desperately.
Draco saw him read it once. And that is how Draco knows that the book belongs to him. It had not been long ago, perhaps a few weeks at most, and Draco had forgotten a text he had needed in the dungeon classroom. Draco had dashed down later that evening to retrieve it, giddy as he realized he would be able to see him once before going to sleep, and he would be clearly impressed upon him, the air around him. Draco had stopped, though, outside the room, when he had seen him.
He had been pacing the room, but he had been doing so almost distractedly. As if he had not known that he was walking, and Draco recognized the expression on his face. Lucius would slip into that look when he was reading, when he was hiding before sleeping, that removal, that purposeful loss of self. He had been part of the air that was really the words.
He had been reading the book.
And Draco had stood there, forgetting why he had come down, forgetting who he was and forgetting that the world spun, that daylight dawned, that stars reflected and rebounded against each other and the dark around them. No all that Draco saw was him, reading, forming the words with his lips, and he was so lovely. The look on his face as he dove into the book, the un-hypocritical poems holding only his desired meaning and his blessed insanity. He was so perfect and lovely and Draco was floating away with wanting and with loving and with insanity…
And then he had not even known it would be in Russian.
Draco had found the book earlier that morning, as he had been walking out of the dungeon, and his heart had filled, almost, with joy. Not because he even wanted to find release in the words, in the poems, the way Lucius did before he slept, but because Draco would be able to hold the book, feel the cover and be closer to him. Closer.
***
It is later, and Draco is sneaking down the stairwell to the dungeon. He is going to return the book, because he does not want to cry out in his sleep, as he has done before, and with the book underneath his pillow, Draco knows that he will dream hard enough to rip his name from his sleeping lips.
The halls are darkened, and Draco's finger is pressed in the pages of the book, marking out his favorite---161. One sixty one. The name of the poems as "What Happened", in English of course, and some completely understandable lunacy in Russian on the opposite side. He hates having to part with the book, but Draco does not want him going to sleep without the book. Perhaps he slept with it underneath his pillow, and that thought made Draco warm inside again, warm and shuddery with agony and pleasure.
Like some ashen-eyed Russian poet, reveling in the glory of his own depression, hating the reality of circumstance, and living in a world of lunatic truth, unmasked with love for the unattainable and ending in some April.
Draco will not kill himself. No.
Draco does not think that anyone is in the room as he slips in, intent to leave the book on his desk so he will not know who brought it, but as Draco approaches, a few candles flicker on and he is sitting there.
Draco's breath catches. He is not breathing again.
"Mr. Malfoy? Is there anything wrong?" he asks, getting to his feet.
Draco tries frantically to remind himself to breath so he can reply and look normal. Look lucid. He is approaching Draco now, and Draco is smiling suddenly.
"I…is this yours? Is this what you were…" Draco trails off. He is no poet. He holds the book up like a shy child, thanking the Lord that he can breath now.
He looks down at Draco, his face rippled with surprise and embarrassment. Draco smiles softly, and the embarrassment leaves his face. He takes the book and caresses the cover softly. Draco suppresses a sudden gasp of need.
"Thank you, Draco." He nods, touching Draco's shoulder softly. A touch of a father. A touch of a teacher. Nothing more, and that in itself makes Draco want to cry. But…he does not mind.
"You're welcome, Professor Snape." Draco murmurs quickly, and turns from the room, cautioning himself not to run. He is in love. He will buy that book, somehow, and he has already memorized page one sixty one.
Draco Malfoy casts one last look back at Severus Snape, who has opened the book and is smiling faintly, smiling over the book, the words, and he is mouthing them in completely lucid Russian:
********************************************************************************************
"What Happened"
More than possible
More than necessary---
As though
In sleep sagging down in poetic delirium---
The lump of heart has grown huge in bulk:
That bulk is love
That bulk is hate.
Under the burden
My legs
Walked shakily---
As you know,
I am
Well built---
An appendage of the heart, I dragged myself about,
Hunching the vast width of my shoulders.
I swell with the milk of verse—
There's no pouring it forth---
Anywhere, it seems---and it brims me anew.
I am exhausted by lyricism---
--Vladimir Mayakovsky
Well!! What did you think!? Was it all right? I love Mayakovsky, and I wanted to incorporate this poem, somehow…lol, well, please review! I would be so grateful…I want to know what I am doing wrong, so I can fix it next time. Lol!
Thank you so much!